So, yeah, not pregnant. And now out of embryos. You’d think I’d feel worse.
I mean, I did. I did feel worse. I started to cry on the phone with the nurse. I sat on the couch and cried while alerting the media that this trip was motherfucking over, man. I felt sad and lost and alone (wow, the alone part…. yeesh) and disappointed and weepy and then stuffy from crying and sad and really sad and really, really sad and shocked and a whole host of other things that I can’t come up with names for.
And then I got in bed. To hide, briefly.
And then the troops began to descend. A friend showed up and put me in her car and we got treaty coffees and then walked and took pictures and talked and I said lots of things I was feeling and she said lots of things that were very wise and then we got drenched in a summer storm and the sun came back out in the rain and it was like we were in some tropical-rainforest-paradise made up by a theme park only it was real life, y’all. Real fucking life. Better than you knew, right?
And then I went for fancy cocktails with another friend, and we didn’t talk about my infertility shit at all. By design or no, I have no idea, but it was pretty great.
And then a whole mess of my girls came over, which had been scheduled for a while, so it didn’t feel, thank you baby Jesus, like a pity party, but was really just great. Popcorn and whiskey for everyone! Well, they had wine.
Meanwhile, the internets kept checking in, which really does help. It does, internets. So thanks.
For the moment, I really think I am ok. No idea what happens now and I am certain the sad/alone/lost/etc will come and go according to no schedule at all. But, right now, I think I’m ok.
Now with bonus picture:
I’m not pregnant. Really, this is the norm, so why stray from it?
Lest you worry overmuch, I am doing ok. It sucks but I am ok. Either that or the steroid euphoria hasn’t worn off yet.
Oh, camp… I can’t even remember what day it is….
Oh, yeah, day 8. Teaching. Um, well. That’s what I do. For work, that is. And also because I generally love it – the money’s not good enough to make anyone stick around; you have to love it at least a little bit. Or, if you’re me, you also stick around because you have no other marketable skills. My kids are two, and don’t yet read (although they are great a picking their noses), so blogs mean very little to them.
Shall we play catch up? We shall.
Day 7. I don’t think I have a favorite for any meal – weird, considering I also had no guilty pleasures. Wow, do I love food blogs, though. And, yes, I would totally write one if I had enough motivation to do anything at all. Note my tumblr, which is all about lunch and hasn’t been updated in forever, and the last post wasn’t even my lunch. Maybe I should get back on that… or you could! You, too, could half-ass-ed-ly fulfill your food blogger fantasies and log your lunch!
Day 6. I never try new things because I hate new things. For real.
Day 5. Ummm…. I don’t know what I like best to do on my birthday. (See why I need to be kicked out of camp – can’t answer the damn questions.) Usually, LB and I have a party of sorts, because our birthdays are so close together.
Day 4. Being an adult surprises the shit out of me daily. What is this leaky pipe and why do I have to deal with it? Where did these bills come from? And who are all these damn cats and to whom do they belong?! I think the world of blogging has taught me about generosity. How to have it and how to be on the receiving end of it. Thanks for that lesson, Cali. For real.
Oh, well, hello there!
Are you even still here? Did you think I’d given up on having a baby? Yeah, me, too. But no! I didn’t! Why give up when I can torture myself more? Woo and hoo!
So a week or so ago, after a big, long break, I had a “counseling” session with my re, who was his usual great self. He wanted to recheck my thyroid* and was cool with my plan to put off the mega-pricey battery of auto-immune tests. If I hit the magic number of three miscarriages, my insurance will shell out mega-bucks. As I’m just one blood-bath short, I think I’ll wait. If this next try works, score! No need for testing! If it fails, well, at least I get the million mega-pricey battery of tests for free. See? Win, win.
Anyway. My thyroid checked out just fine, thank you very much. (Now, let us sing the praises of the lab people. Who not only remembered my name after all this time, but also remembered that I like a bit of gauze and a piece of tape rather than the big, stupid colored wrap that is the norm these days.) And so I was cleared for take off. Note the metaphor. It’s a Journey, y’all.
Here’s how it’s all going to shake out: oral estrogen starting on CD 2 (Have I missed counting cycle days? No, I have not.) and then prog (By vagina! Because that’s how we roll.) and some wandings and one blood draw and then off I toddle to Richmond to get one of my ten – yes, that’s 10 – embryos popped back up in there. There being my uterus.
So let’s beat this motherfucker into the ground this time. Hand me my stick.
*What? You didn’t know there’d been thyroid trouble? Well, that’s a story….from the Fall When Everything Fell Apart And Then My Cat Died. But we are living in the now, y’all. The. Now.
Yesterday, there was a random knock on my front door. Now, things have been pretty shit around here, and I didn’t really want to answer the door, but I did. Cause it’s rude not to and why compound misery with rude?
Anyway, it was this older guy, smoking a cigarette, with some story about being hired to rake some lady’s yard, but she didn’t have a rake and his was at his house across town and he didn’t want to walk all the way home to get it and did I have a rake he could borrow?
It seemed maybe sketchy. But I do have a rake so I told him to meet me around back and I gave him my rake, which has been much neglected of late and he thanked me and swore up and down he’d bring it back and went on his way.
It wasn’t real generosity on my part; it was an attempt not to snap at him and refuse just because of my own unhappiness. It didn’t make me feel particularly better and I did wonder if I’d see the rake again.
When I answered the door just now, it was him. With my rake and and offer of a few dollars, which I refused. He asked God to bless me and I replied, “you too, sir” and what I meant was that his stranger’s blessing was enough for my atheist ass.
I love a thesaurus, don’t you?
IVF 1.0 failed. Or, rather hung on like a tenacious fire ant whose betas won’t rise and then flamed out brilliantly in a painful hour of horrid cramping bleeding that I like to call a miscarriage. The medical world likes to sugar coat it with the name Chemical Pregnancy, but that sounds a tad formal for something I’m so up close and personal with, don’t you think?
It’s been a particularly crap past couple weeks. I’d like a do-over.
You see, this is how it is: infertility is rough. It eats up at the edges of who you think you are and sticks long, brittle poles into your being. You have to walk very, very carefully after those poles are in there. Those fuckers are brittle and will shatter at the least provocation. And you thought you knew who you were. Ha. I’d like to be all new-age-y and shit and say how I’ve “grown as a person” and that this “journey” is a “gift” that has brought out the “better parts” of my “true self.” But we all know that’s some bullshit. It’s just been ugly and has made me uglier.
Disappointment is a bummer. And it’s the lifeblood of the infertility world. You’d think it was hope that kept us all going, but nope. You’d be wrong. We continue because the disappointment is so damn disappointing. Hope, on the other hand is the brick wall you keep banging your head into until there’s a nice dent in both the wall and your head. And here I was, hoping my best self would rise to the occasion and provide some much needed grace. Oh, well, as the kids say.
And it gets old. Talking about your bitter brittleness. For real, nobody wants to hear it anymore. Not even yourself. Disappointment is so god damn boring. Can’t we talk about something else?
(Although, clearly, I can’t talk about much else, if you notice just how little I’ve had to say of late. I wanted to tell you about the injectables cycle this fall and how it almost broke me, literally and figuratively. About the cycles missed on account of holidays. About how even with femara, home inseams are just not working. About how I am on the far side of 35. I wanted to tell you all those things. But didn’t, or couldn’t, or something.)
So, yeah. I’m going for an appointment to talk about IVF in a couple weeks. I’m just tired. Five years in and I am just fucking tired. Of disappointment and bitterness and waiting. It’s time to bring in the big guns or throw in the towel.
(just so we know this is not a blog only about my peeps)
In no particular order:
- there are one and one half days of school left. Thank fucking god. I don’t blog about work, but this year has sucked.
- the peeps spend most days outside, which is great, because they are messy as shit. For real. But I heart them.
- no camp for me this summer (teaching, that is). I have a fab new babysitting charge – let’s call her….. ah, something. I’ll come up with something.
- ttc shit is totally overwhelming and hence paralyzing. What to do next? Can’t think about it, can’t decide, can’t deal. Woo!
- recent fab visit from my white grandma involving tea at my house – twice! Woo for real!
- general blah > general not blah. This bites.
- j says I’m not blogging enough. Who am I to argue with her?
- the kitten, who were once so tiny, are now 1 and very big. I also heart them. The boy one likes to lay around “guarding” the peeps when they are outside.
- The New Girl is being…. well, herself. We’ll see how all that goes, as I can’t really be much of anything but myself, and those mesh less than well recently (see #6 above).
- house and yard are, as per usual, more work than I want to deal with. Lame. Dirty and untidy do nothing to make me feel good, and yet they are so hard to send packing.
- I have a new doula client, which causes me to remember that I really, really like birth work.
- LB is very good at keeping up with folks, for which I am grateful.
- my csa started and the neighbors are going to roast a whole pig in my driveway.
What’s new with you?
There seems to be a flame war in the comments for my past post – Wheeeeeee! (For the record, I will sell my soul for welsh cakes.)
Today’s lunch: tuna salad from the ever charming good old JG with arugula and red leaf lettuce from the market. Log your lunch. You know you want to.
Off to take my 200 mg of prometrium……